


drenching what is dark

by pseudocitrus



Series: dawn disrupts me [4]
Category: Tokyo Ghoul:re
Genre: Established Relationship, Fluff, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Shower Sex, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-25
Updated: 2015-11-25
Packaged: 2018-05-03 07:17:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,406
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5281712
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pseudocitrus/pseuds/pseudocitrus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Washing off the color.</p>
            </blockquote>





	drenching what is dark

**Author's Note:**

> comes directly after the previous fic in this series :)
> 
> disclaimer: i didn't look up the Chateau floorplan (and also have never played The Sims cough)
> 
> hope you're having a good day!

After that, there’s nothing much to do but wait, somewhat tensely, for everyone in the house to go to sleep.

“Everyone is in their rooms,” Mutsuki whispers. “I think. I’m sure,” he amends, when Urie looks over at him. “Saiko is still awake, though.”

The little brat only sleeps when it’s least convenient for everyone. But, whatever. It’s not like she ever leaves her room either.

“Let’s go,” Urie says, and Mutsuki nods.

He doesn’t bring extra clothing to cover up his messed-up shirt — he doesn’t want to mess up more than what’s already been ruined. He glances back at Mutsuki, who looks apprehensive but prepared to head out wearing nothing but his paint-smeared boxers. Urie opens the door as slowly and soundlessly as possible.

The bathroom on this floor is tempting — but it’s small, and if someone else for some reason needs to visit the bathroom, this one will probably be the first choice. So, they rush downstairs, quickly, to the shower room adjacent to the training room.

Once there, they flick on the lights, and squint against the sudden light. Despite their best efforts, their trail is flecked with green, and Urie snorts and then shuts the door. There’s nothing to be done about it now. Fortunately, this room has spare towels.

He begins shrugging and stepping out of his clothing. The last thing to go are his gloves, which he sets aside on a counter. Then he starts heading for one shower, and looks back with confusion as Mutsuki follows. Their eyes meet as Mutsuki steps in after him and draws the glass door shut.

_Again?_

Well — it’s not like Urie’s opposed to it. And it’s not like they could get any messier. He curls his hands around Mutsuki’s thighs, and Mutsuki sets his hands on Urie’s waist and turns him around, firmly.

_What?_

Urie stiffens. Mutsuki is pressing closer against his back; Mutsuki is slipping his hands across his belly, and lower. Mutsuki leans, and Urie stumbles. , and catches himself with palms flat against the wall, and Mutsuki curls his hands gently around Urie’s cock.

Urie feels a sweat break out across his body. This — this —

Is not what he expected. Mutsuki has always been receptive, but this is the first time it’s been Mutsuki to drag his mouth against the nape of Urie’s neck, the first time Mutsuki has held him with intention. The shock renders him soft at first but all it takes is a couple slow pumps before he finds himself hardening and trying to grip the smooth walls.

He curses beneath his breath and can swear that he feels Mutsuki smile.

Paint is not the best lubricant; it’s already drying, and Mutsuki reaches and twists the shower on with a tiny squeak. Usually the showers on this floor start on the colder side, but — Urie swallows. His body is too hot. All he notices through the haze is emerald, streaming and pooling down the drain at their ankles. He coughs as Mutsuki wraps his hand around his cock again.

“Is it okay?” Mutsuki asks.

Urie huffs in response, and when Mutsuki starts off slowly, Urie huffs, again, a little more sharply. This time, Mutsuki licks his lips, and picks up the pace. Urie’s body shudders and leans back.

Mutsuki is way too good at this, for someone that Urie assumed had no experience at all. His rhythm is even, and he experiments with pressure, finally settling, somehow, on what Urie likes best: loose fingers on the downstroke, and a slow, aching tightness as they ease up. After Urie becomes unable to control his breath, Mutsuki begins rolling his thumb softly across the tip of him, nudging the slit and using the other hand to cup and squeeze his balls.

What the fuck — what the  _fuck_  — how the  _fuck_  is he so fucking —

“M-Mu —” Urie gasps, and Mutsuki pulls away. Urie winces as his erection bobs sharply, and it takes all Urie’s effort not to snap; but what frustration flares up in him dies immediately as Mutsuki holds him again, this time with a palm slicked with soap.

_Fuck_ —

This — part of this is — part of this is really uncomfortable. It’s downright humiliating to be in this state in front of someone — trembling, practically panting — spreading his legs just a little wider.

But Mutsuki’s hand feels so warm and slippery and —  _good_  — and Mutsuki’s murmurs are so ticklish, even with the water showering down, drowning out his syllables. Urie doesn’t even know what he’s saying but his voice is soft as usual, and coaxing as usual, and full with focus. It’s so stupid of someone to bother giving him this much attention. It’s so stupid that Mutsuki doesn’t seem to care at all about the fact that Urie is generally a weak, empty, sub-par —

“Hey,” Mutsuki says, and Urie blinks, and feels goosebumps rise from shoulder to spine as Mutsuki sucks his skin just a little harder, as Mutsuki makes his stroke just a little faster. A small and embarrassing noise stutters out of Urie’s mouth, and he claps his hand over his face before any more escape.

His attempt fails, mostly — even the smallest noises that slip out between his fingers feel amplified by the bathroom walls. With some desperation Urie fumbles with the shower knobs and increases the water pressure to at least cover his stupid noises up. Even if that works for anything outside the room, though, he is sure that Mutsuki can hear everything, and feel it, too. The moan that has crept, low, into his helpless gasps — the tensing muscles across his back — the urgent, speeding thrust of Urie’s hips against Mutsuki’s hand —

It’s so good, it’s so tight and brisk and good and  _foreign_ , to be this close to someone, to have some heat firm against his back, to hear the faint slap of their hips together, just, to be, so close, so  _close_  —

The pressure is rising in his veins — his right arm is shedding clots of purple cells — his voice is something he’s lost track of completely. He blurts out —  _something_  — a couple syllables that are meant, probably, to be Mutsuki’s name — but it’s lost in water, lost in the smack of his forehead against the wall as he climaxes, spilling wildly on the faucet, the tiles, on his own wet belly. Mutsuki is still speaking to him as he strokes out every last drop.

Somehow, the whole thing leaves Urie too exhausted to even protest as Mutsuki tries to straighten him out of his slump and then gives up and scrubs the remaining paint from his body, chastely. The shower squeaks shut and the last rivulets of green spiral away. Mutsuki tugs him out of the shower then, steps heavy, and yanks out towels that he drapes and rubs on Urie’s head and shoulders.

“Quit already,” Urie grumbles, finally, and Mutsuki laughs, lightly, for some reason. He glances at himself in the mirror. His hair is totally disheveled; his face is still flushed. As he tries to comb it down with his fingers, he notes Mutsuki’s eyes focusing on his reflection. Urie pauses, eyes narrowing, and Mutsuki smiles broadly.

“Nothing,” he responds. “I was just thinking that…that you, ah…have a nice color.”

Urie’s brows furrow. Mutsuki points, at the back of his neck, precisely where he was suckling. A couple twists and turns in the mirror confirm that there’s a kiss mark stretching across the back of his neck. Mutsuki scratches his head.

“Sorry,” he coughs.

Urie touches it with the pad of a finger. It doesn’t hurt. It’s somewhat purple, but, more than likely it’ll be gone by the next morning. Urie frowns.

“I’m tired,” he says. “Let’s get back to bed.”

They do, moving quietly enough to not stir the rest of the house. It’s only the next morning that he remembers the tiny flicks of paint they scattered the night before, and he wakes up, cursing beneath his breath, to smear them clean.

So much for not being discovered. When he returns to his room, he pauses in front of the mirror. Hesitates. Then tugs down his collar.

“It’s gone?” Mutsuki whispers, and Urie jumps.

“Yeah,” he coughs, after a moment.

“That’s good,” Mutsuki says, pushing the blankets aside to sit up.

“…right?” he asks.

 Urie purses his lips. Mutsuki laughs. Soft, coaxing. His arms stretch out.

“Come here,” he says. “I’ll put it back.”


End file.
